November 17, 1994
Brendan sat on a bench in front of the Park Deli and put her head in her hands. For the past month she had spent every free minute and most of her work time—except for one deadly boring story about deceptive practices of local auto repair shops—scouring Flat Rock, Hendersonville, and the majority of Henderson County for some clue to Adora Archers whereabouts. But the Playhouse was closed for the season, and the whole thing had turned out to be little more than an exercise in futility.
She kept seeing Letitia Cameron's face, remembering the hope that had flared in the old woman's eyes when Brendan promised to go looking for Adora. But she had let Letitia down. She had let herself down. And if she didn't find something soon, Ron Willard was sure to pull her off the story and send her to do one of those on-the-scene bits about some mother cat who was nursing orphaned baby possums or a rat frozen into a package of bagels.
"Miss Delaney? Brendan Delaney?"
Brendan opened her eyes to see a pair of enormous feet in gray wool socks and clunky Birkenstocks. Her gaze traveled upward past an ankle-length flowered skirt in shades of tan and black, past a black knit T-shirt and rag wool sweater, to the smiling, intense blue eyes of a rangy middle-aged woman with long straight hair, ash blonde mixed with gray. Brendan sighed. All she needed right now was the effusive cheerfulness of some granola hippie throwback. A big fan, no doubt.
"Yes?"
"You don't remember me, do you?" Granola asked. Without waiting for an answer, she plunked down on the bench next to Brendan and went on. "I'm Franny Carpenter-Claymaker. You interviewed me last year when you did that piece on the Carl Sandburg farm."
Ah, Brendan thought, the goat lady. She should have remembered; after all, it was the first time in her life she had ever seen a human kiss a goat on the mouth. And the last time she ever wanted to.
"Well of course, Franny," she answered smoothly. "So good to see you again. How are the kids?"
Franny threw back her head and laughed. "Kids! Oh, that's a good one!" She even sounded a little like a goat, Brendan thought. And the kid joke wasn't that funny
"To tell the truth," Franny was saying, "I'm no longer at the farm."
She shifted to face Brendan on the bench and began to give a detailed account of how she had developed an allergy to goat hair and had to make a major life change because of it. "I just kept sneezing and sneezing, and my throat kept closing up until—well, until I just couldn't go on. It was very difficult, you know, leaving the goats in someone else's care. We had become so close, bonded—like family, you know."
"Terrible," Brendan muttered absently. The way this woman went on, you'd think that goat-hair allergy was on a level with cancer or AIDS or cardiomyopathy and that turning over the care of Sandburg's goats to some other granola-head was a tragedy equal to losing a child.
"Anyway," Franny said, brightening, "I'm sure you don't want to hear me ramble on about goats and allergies."
The understatement of the decade, Brendan thought, but of course she didn't say so. She glanced at her watch, wondering what she'd have to do to extricate herself from Franny Carpenter-Claymaker. But before she had a chance to think up an excuse about some phantom appointment, Franny grabbed her arm and twisted it around. "Is it twelve-thirty already? My goodness! I'll bet you're waiting to meet someone for lunch!" She waved a hand toward the deli. "I do hope I'm not keeping you."
"No, not at all." Brendan's response came out automatically, before it registered that the woman was giving her the perfect out. She could have kicked herself.
"Well, then, how about joining me! I'd love to treat you—"
"That's not necessary," Brendan hedged.
"All right, we'll go Dutch, then. But at least let me buy dessert. The Park has the most wonderful pastries and pies—"
Before she knew what had happened, Brendan found herself seated on the upper level of the Park Deli, ordering a grilled chicken salad. Franny opted for the vegetarian lasagna—no surprise there—and spent the next nine minutes (Brendan timed it) chattering about the benefits of tofu and her personal aversion to eating anything that had once had a face.
"So," Franny said when their iced tea arrived, "what brings you down here? A follow-up story about the Sandburg home?"
"Not really." Brendan stirred artificial sweetener into her tea. "I'm doing background work, actually, for a future story. I'm looking for an elderly woman, and my last clue to her whereabouts was a postcard from the Flat Rock Playhouse. But I've been all over Flat Rock and Hendersonville and haven't found her—or anyone who knows her. I'm about ready to give up."
Franny gave a little squeal and gripped Brendan's wrist until the skin turned white. "I work at the Playhouse now!" she gushed. "Maybe I can be of some help—you know, see what we can track down together."
"I thought the Playhouse was closed for the season."
"Well, yes, the plays run through mid-October—you just missed our last musical, in fact. But during the off-season we're making preparations for the coming year. The offices are open, and planning is going on." The food arrived, and Franny attacked her lasagna as if it might scuttle away. "When we're done here, we'll go down and see what we can find."
Brendan picked at her own salad and silently urged Granola Franny to hurry. It might be a long shot, but it was the only shot she had.
"This is so much fun," Franny said as she waited for the computer to boot up. "Like detective work and television all rolled into one."
Brendan was tempted to ask if the woman even had electricity in her house, much less a television set. Franny seemed the type who would find intrinsic value in outhouses and oil lamps. But Brendan kept her mouth shut. Despite her eccentricities, this woman just might give her something to work with. At that moment, Brendan would have swapped her fine house on Town Mountain for a hillbilly cabin in the woods—if the trade would lead her to Adora Archer.
"Okay," Franny was saying. "We're ready to go. What's the lady's name?"
"Adora Archer," Brendan replied. "A-D-O-R-A."
"Odd name." Franny typed in the name and punched a few keys. "Nope. Nothing here."
"Where are you looking?"
"Ticket sales—both season tickets and individual."
Brendan thought a minute. Letitia didn't have much information about Adora from later years—only a few Christmas cards and the Flat Rock postcard. Maybe Adora had gotten married, taken her husband's name.
"I don't suppose the gift shop keeps computer records of sales," she suggested.
"For a postcard? I doubt it. Not unless it was paid for by credit card." Franny grinned at her little joke and tried again. "Nothing. Sorry."
"Can you run a search on first names? She might have gotten married."
"If we just knew more about her—"
"I don't know much more than what I've told you. She'd be in her eighties by now—82, 83, somewhere around there. She was originally from Asheville and left in 1930 to go to California. Wanted to become a movie star."
"An actress?" Franny warmed to the chase. "Why didn't you tell me? Let me check—"
"Check what?" Brendan interrupted, but Franny held up a hand for silence.
"Just a minute. I'll do a cross-link. There!"
Brendan felt her heart race with the clicking of the keys. "Did you find something?"
"I just thought—well, no. I guess not."
"What?"
"There is an Archer here, but it's a middle name, not a last. C. Archer Lovell. Bought two sets of season tickets the last three years in a row. Oh, wait. There's another Lovell."
"More tickets?"
"No, this one is in the actors' workshop—or was. Name: Addie A. Lovell. Date of birth, 1912. Had a bit part two years ago, apparently, in one of the crowd scenes in Carousel." Franny turned. "Not your gal, apparently, but can you imagine being eighty years old and still on stage?" She flipped her long hair away from her face. "Guess they do it all the time, though—look at George Burns."
Brendan turned away from the computer screen and sighed. "Well, thanks for trying anyway, Franny. I appreciate your time."
"If there's anything else I can do for you, Miss Delaney, just give me a call." Franny clicked a key, and the screen saver came up. "Want me to send you a brochure for next season? We've got a good lineup."
"That'd be nice," Brendan murmured as she closed the door behind her.
She sat for a long time in the 4Runner, with the cobalt blue bottle in one hand and the postcard Letitia had given her in the other. Brendan examined the postcard one more time, although she didn't know why—she had practically memorized it by now. Old dreamers never die, the message said. No signature, just that wavering, spidery hand. Postmarked Flat Rock, NC, April 9, 1992.
She turned the card over and looked absently at the photo. A stage scene, with the words Flat Rock Playhouse superimposed across the bottom. Rather dark, in fact—not a very good picture. The stage was crowded with costumed people, all circling around a life-size merry-go-round. . . .
Carousel!
Addie A. Lovell, Franny had said. Addie. Could it be . . . Adora? And the other Lovell, the person with the middle name of Archer, who bought season tickets—
Brendan shoved the bottle back into her bag and bolted for the office. "Franny!" she yelled as she slammed through the door. "Get those names back for me, will you?"
In the space of two minutes—an interminable two minutes, by Brendan Delaney's internal clock—Franny had the lists up on parallel screens: the season ticket holders on one side, the actors' workshop people on the other.
"Can you isolate Addie A. Lovell and C. Archer Lovell?" Franny nodded. "Now, what about addresses?"
Franny clicked the mouse on a pull-down menu and said, "Oh, wow."
"What?" Brendan snapped impatiently.
"Same address."She clicked on an icon in the upper left of the screen and poised her hand over the printer. A page slid out, and she handed it to Brendan. "I know this place. Take the road past the Sandburg house. After you pass the access drive that goes into the goat barns, it'll be the next driveway on the right."
"I owe you," Brendan called over her shoulder as she dashed for the door.
"The juiciest porterhouse in town." She stopped and grinned at Franny, who was making a face. "Or a big hunk of hummus. Your choice."